


Apocalypse

by jokerownsmysoul



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Arson, Blood, F/M, Riot - Freeform, description of apocalyptic scenario
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29680542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jokerownsmysoul/pseuds/jokerownsmysoul
Summary: The early riot that saw Joker dancing atop the car has already ceased as you’re coming back home. Suddenly you decide to go back there, unaware of the mysterious encounter you’re about to make and a slow dance you'll never forget.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/You, joker (2019) x reader
Kudos: 7





	Apocalypse

You didn’t know exactly why you've decided to go back to that place. The riot had already ceased as you were making your way home among the now-unfamiliar streets, grateful that you managed to get out of there safe and unharmed – not everyone got so lucky, you considered with a sigh.

The chilly, past-midnight air blending with the still persistent heat of the fires set during the riot was quite convincing for you to crave the coziness of your apartment and a hot meal, but not enough to make you change your mind. Before you knew it your feet had turned around, the prospect of the soup waiting for you in the oven and a peaceful slumber already forgotten, and your steps had found themselves headed to the place you so hard were trying to get away from not so long ago.

The soot in the air crawling up your nostrils burned your nose as you walked down the sidewalks, watching the remnants of what the riot had caused – what the man in the red stage dress and the carnivalesque mask painted on his face had caused.

Broken glass was scattered along the length of the roads, remains of the windowpanes that until recently adorned the main streets of Gotham in a feigned wealth. It felt like an obstacle course as you had to walk tiptoe in the areas nearest the shop windows, careful not to hurt yourself, dodging through the items the rioters had thrown throughout the unforgivable night.

Stores signage and neon lights had been torn to pieces, the buzzing flicker of their luminaires still echoed through the nocturnal streets like little talking crickets. They were showing you why going back was a bad idea, that you should've gone home and rest, like conscientious messengers. What were you expecting to see, anyway?

The traffic lights no longer in operation turned off - those that had not been yet destroyed, at least - and the absence of speeding cars along the usually crowded asphalt was enough to notice the gravity of the situation, the level of destruction that had spread throughout the city. A destruction you were willingly headed to.

There was something, you couldn’t understand exactly what it was, that was pushing you towards the way back. Back to that specific place over the entire city.

You hadn’t forgotten the mysterious man you had seen dancing atop the car with a gracefulness totally out of place, an elegance that, you were sure, wasn’t meant to be surrounded by the ruins you had witnessed but sometimes better, nicer.

His surprised expression when he rose up from the car and found himself surrounded by a roaring and cheering crowd, the subtle, painful resignation settled in his movements as he danced upon the citizens of Gotham and the heavy sadness in his emerald eyes, so beautiful and so haunted by grief all the same, had made it clear to you that everything occurred since he had been caught by the cops wasn’t expected, that he hadn't nothing to do with it. And yet, no matter how much unaware or far away he seemed to be from what you've just witnessed to, everything seemed to come back to him full circle.

_Someone doesn't need to enjoy something to be a part of it and get stuck in_ , you thought, as you took in the glorious, flamboyant demeanor he was showing, so different from the emotions his watery eyes want to tell. There was more within him than what he was showing, and no one but you seemed to notice. Strangely, you wanted to know what it was.

When you finally reached the place where it all began what you found was beyond anything mundane you had seen so far in your life; nothing you'd seen along the way was comparable to this.

There was absolutely nothing there.

It was hard to recognize that the street that had once been occupied by a madding crowd, busy supporting a man brave enough to speak out by giving voice to the deepest thoughts the citizens of Gotham didn't dare to say, if only after someone else did, was the same street that now was occupied by a desert nothingness.

Had it not been for the smoke still floating upwards in the air and boiling your eyes or for the rhythmic chills of cold running along your arms you would have thought that what you were witnessing to was a limbo; a undefined, in-between place where time stopped and even life itself ceased to exist the way you knew it, letting rest the chaos that inhabited the earth. Chaos itself had given way to a phantom, lifeless road crossing detached from reality beneath your feet. Not alive, but not even near death.

But you were alive, in flesh and blood, in the middle of a desert road that, as incredible as it may seemed, not long ago had welcomed a merciless, boisterous rebellion, now vanished as if it had never existed at all, the consequences it had left already forgotten like nothing. Typical Gotham.

Your eyes were wandering over the city, studying the framework before your eyes when a quick movement caught your attention into the distance.

It was the silhouette of a man harmoniously blended with the darkness of a unenlightened alley, you noticed, and thanked the faint silvery glitter of the moonlight seeping in the alley that allowed you to distinguish the outlines of green locks and a red suit falling along a lean, thin figure. You recognized the same stage dress you saw that night and a lump formed down your throat as you registered that the man standing across from you was none other than the Joker.

Joker emerged within the darkness of the alley; a shadow of mystery enveloped him like a cloak and was gradually revealing his figure to the light as he slowly walked into the middle of the empty road. You were mesmerized by his signature bewitching demeanor put on display, which filled the air with palpable electricity since he had entered the scene. As if the air, and the city itself, had felt his presence, and everywhere he went his surrounding changed as he passed by in order to conform to him.

The victory of the riot was adorning him like a God.

You followed his slow walk and you saw him approaching you patiently, as if time and space belonged to him - and maybe they did.

You had already perceived that the nature of his desires was different from the events that occurred to him, and yet, as you were staring at his fierce, confident walk make their way among the smell of gasoline and burnt newspapers rolling down the road moved by the wind, demolished buildings behind him, his red suit turned into a solar eclipse color shade among the remnants of arsons and glowing flecks of dust dancing across his face like little spotlights framing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if you saw him, again, dancing upon a crowd that praised him. There was a part within him that seemed to fit seamlessly in the panorama of colors, scents and wildness spread out before your eyes. A connection to freedom.

When he finally reached you a warm feeling cross your stomach. Even knowing who he was, what he have done, you found yourself in admiration. There wasn’t fear within you, only curiosity.

“It’s over now.” He talked slowly, as if your conversation had begun long before he arrived. Then he fumbled with his hand in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a red lighter, staring at your surrounding and lingering his gaze on the city like you were doing just early. "Isn't it beautiful?"

His voice was softer than you imagined. As your lips parted in response you noticed the hisses of your voice, proving that within you was being built more excitement than you thought.

A scarlet grin enfolded the filter of his cigarette, it's embers standing out on to the night when he took a drag and it’s ashes mingling with the dusty, apricot air that the fires had left, still floating all around you like poisonous oxygen.

Not getting an answer, though his sounded more a statement than a question, he kept going. "You shouldn't be here all alone. It's dangerous out there."

You chuckled, amused by the irony of the situation. "And you're the one telling me," you said, and he shrugged in a small smile.

He had a kind smile, you observed, and a little sad. It was rare to see kind smiles in Gotham especially nowadays, especially like his own.

“Are you surprised to see me here?"

It didn't take long for you to answer this time.

“You know what they say. The murderer always returns to the crime scene.”

He blinked at you, pensive. “So that’s what you think I am?”

“Well, you _did_ kill people, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.” He quipped lightheartedly, and noticing what you knew about him, the account on his life, he wondered why you were still there, talking to him and not pushing him away from you. “I killed those guys because they were awful. I didn't want any of it to happen.”

And then his smile grew sad, something dark, unwanted, was making its way inside his eyes. The urgency in his need to explain himself, to let you know the origin of his actions, that only half of what had happened was his fault, was unexpected. Everything you thought about him while he was dancing turned out to be true, and you hoped you hadn't upset him.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

You nodded eagerly. "I saw what happened before." For some reasons you weren’t quiet sure about you believed him, and you needed him to know that.

You didn't forget the contrast of the heavy sadness inviding his eyes as he painted a bloody smile on to his face, and you knew in your heart that everything he had said was right as he talked about the unfairness of the city, about the forgotten. His actions might have been wrong, but his words were not.

And you were still unafraid of him, though everything was supposed to be telling you to be. But the more you talked, the more you felt drawn to him and wanted to discover the layered, complex richness he carried within.

“You're the first, then.” He smiled bitterly, angling his head upwards to exhale the smoke of his cigarette out of his nose. A cloud of smoke caught the flutter of his dark, long lashes, his lips slightly parted, lifted up toward the sky as you watched the smoky trail leaving his nostrils under the moonlight, before he tossed the butt of his cigarette on the asphalt with a flick. You tried to ignore the tickling sensation snapping inside you at the sight of it.

“You were quiet convincing as you were putting on a show.”

“No one truly cared," he scoffed, "I just gave them what they wanted.”

“And what did they want?”

“A performance”, he stated, glancing at you in a mischievous, bitter grin.

You were almost sure that you sensed also a little bit of pride in his voice.

You smiled at him in complicity before the silence fell between you and your heads simultaneously turned one more time towards your surrounding and the destruction that had covered the city overnight.

The police car where Joker had danced on was still there as a scary reminder, surrounded by vehicles flipped over against the asphalt and enveloped by a sea of inextinguishable flames, crash marks and traces of collision frighteningly visible anywhere you look.

The household lamps beyond the windows of the inhabited buildings were turned off, newspapers, glass and rubbish of all kinds were smeared on the street, sprinkling and dancing carelessly under your feet.

In the air still fluctuated the thick and coloured chemical of the smoke bombs while dust and soot belonged to the flames of the fires not yet extinguished had tinged the sky red, like flaming confetti of terror and smoke, pouring upwards toward the sky and enveloping the two of you in a thick fog made of sorrows and glowing ashes. Shouting as a plea to forget what had happened, seeking forgiveness but without any regret; they had enjoyed it.

Your glance fell on the sky on the orizon, which had turned ruby since the riot had begun; flames, burning wounds and shrieking noises had changed its appearance. You were surprised that the moon had not turned red as blood, a fiery red hue similar to the blood that had poured out overnight among rioters. The night was quiet, the city was soundless and covered beneath a velvet, thick cloak over your heads, the usual deep blue of the night already gone in a silent farewell only to welcome imposing, thick clouds of madness and ash, probably stained by the same spilled blood.

Desolation was what pullulated in the city, a post-apocalyptic framework without redemption where everything had become lifeless. Gotham looked like a ghost town welcoming only wicked cemeteries on its surface. It seemed that you and Joker were the last humans on earth as you took in the unusual, mortal silence around you, only the noises of rebellion could be heard.

Instantly you realized that you wouldn’t mind sharing the world with the man beside you for eternity. The desolation before your eyes was no longer unbearable with him.

You were contemplating the wrecked city unfurled before your eyes, together, at the end of the world. There was something inexplicably intimate about sharing the terror of this long night together, in the midst of the blooming fires along the streets, the ashes and the colored smoke of the flares, the wind making your hair dance in hypnosis. You felt connected to him, and you were sure he was feeling it, too.

"Everything looks different now. It doesn't even look like Gotham anymore – which is not entirely a bad thing, I have to admit. Maybe the apocalypse is coming."

"Wouldn’t you miss Gotham if the apocalypse broke out all over the city?" He wanted to know.

"I don't think I would. Well,” you rectified, “I _definitely_ wouldn't miss Gotham.” You saw him agreeing with the corner of your eyes in understanding. “I think it's only a matter of time for the city to rise again from it's ashes."

You angled your head towards him, and you observed him for a few seconds as he was contemplating the city. The smoke of a ended riot danced around him like a crown, pecks of ashes floating toward the moonlight followed his features along the way like little dragonflies, while the dusty air made of rubble framed his green locks, catching them in a sinuous waltz. The glow of small suns hovered over his face amid the wide-open mouths of some still active fires scattered on the nearby streets, like little volcanoes ready to erupt mercilessly all around you.

Still smelling like gasoline and distant flames the unusual light had turned his white-painted skin of crimons, and his suit wrapped in the ruby shadow of the night and under the pale moonlight looked almost blue from that angle, meanwhile a white veil of silver glow was emphasising his sensual curves and his profile like a halo, as though he was a holy silhouette wrapped in the divine light to be venerated.

In the nocturnal, rosy dim light you could see the melancholy radiating from his eyes as he took in the catastrophic scenario before you, and you wondered what he was thinking.

He was persuasive, entrancing – and he was beautiful.

When his eyes locked in with yours and he caught you staring at him, he smiled.

"Let’s pretend the apocalypse is coming then. If only for one night."

He said, and his eyes darkened in anticipation, a wolfish grin expanded along his red lips as he turned to you.

"What are you doing?" You giggled, watching him as he bowed in front of you reverently, making you wonder what was he up to.

"Will you stay with me during this apocalypse?"

His behavior had shifted, showcasing a part of himself that had always been there - and perhaps not so different from the one he had put on a show with just before, with the rioters. He was exhibiting another performance, this time a real one and only for you, and you wondered where his acting and mimic skills came from as he spread the palm of his hand out to you.

"I will."

Thought he had it started, tought the wolfish, playful grin on his face had widened, the surprise on his expression elicited by your promise wasn’t left unnoticed.

"May I have this dance, ma'am?" He politely claimed your hand like a real gentleman as he peeked up at you, dimples curled around his mouth and his lashes fluttering on his cheekbones. He had old fashioned mannerisms that you knew were rare, even outside Gotham, where you guessed that people were nicer.

It was when he reached out for your hand that you knew deep in your heart that you wouldn’t want to survive the apocalypse with anyone else – anyone else but him.

Your arm instinctively stretched out to him by the second, a flirting smile framed his lips as he rose up and got closer in fluid movements, with the same gentle manner and gracefulness you'd seen before.

When Joker took the grab of your hand the unexpected delicacy of his touch struck you. You were taken aback by the shy hesitancy of his gentle hand, and a shiver ran across your back as the pads of his fingers briefly brushed against your own before he interlocked his slender, calloused fingers in between yours.

You couldn’t tell if the tremble of his hands you sensed through your own skin was caused by the coldness of the night or if he was nervous. Was the Joker being nervous around you? You wondered if he wasn't used to this kind of closeness as it seemed to you judging by his reactions. If there was ever anyone in his life willing to hold his hand like you were right now.

Then he pulled you towards him with a flourish, your bodies finally as close as never before, his extravagant confidence visible again. You didn’t realize how much you've yearned to touch him since he had sneaked out of the alley until you felt his chest brushing against yours, his left hand gently holding yours, the other free one politely resting along the curve of your waist carefully not to go too far.

For someone who had unleashed the chaos, his embrace only felt like salvation. A plain, white blissful sensation was seeping in through the gaps in between your ribs and down to your core, warming you from within as he held you close to him. He felt like peace.

Around you reigned the total chaos, and yet, in this everlasting embrace, with his arms holding you tenderly, encircling your waist, the peace this mysterious man radiated that gripped you in a heavenly grasp had managed to cut everything off from your togetherness. You were dancing in the middle of the desert road, waltzing away the desolation around you.

In this shared Apocalypse, as you were slow waltzing together upon the end of the world, the universe orbited you while reality spinned around you as though you were the king and queen of this catastrophe, leaving everything behind as a background of destruction that your dance had managed to defeat.

Imposing buildings and devastation surrounded your charming twirls, curtains of smoke floated around you like companions. On the horizon the moon shone as the only witness allowed to attend your connection; with your bodies discovering each other’s secrets through sensual movements as unspoken feelings lingered on the bridge of your closed lips and you looked in each other’s eye in a comfortable silence.

You were all alone, but if someone had been there, you knew you wouldn’t have noticed anyway. Apocalypse was unfolding before your eyes but you only had eyes for each other.

Joker smiled at you from the top of his wide nose, a soft grin covering his lips in between your slow back and forth. You tried not to let your bashfulness shine through your eyes, hoping that the pitch darkness blended with the ruby atmosphere of the night was hiding the rosy dust twinkling on your cheeks.

And then with a smooth leap of his torso he dipped you over all of a sudden, a small laugh and his hands anchored to your body, holding you tightly not to make you stumble, showing you the world upside down. Maybe that’s how he saw the world, you thought, reciting your nightly conversation in your mind and the rarity of his thoughts, and he wanted to show you what his perspective was like.

When he lifted you up and brought you back into him your chests collided with each other’s with a gentle bounce; he had pulled you even closer into him now, and the possibility that it was intentional made you blush again as he gave you one of his wolfish, soft smiles. Now your body was completely flush against his own, your noses almost in contact and his arm clung around your waist as you kept going with your back and forth. The heat radiated from his body was enfolding you in a pleasant vise, his smell seeping through your nostrils. Having him so close was intoxicating.

From this new proximity his face was clearly discernible despite the darkness of the night and it was easier for you now to see every detail of his features.

You observed how his make up had been adjusted; probably he had it freshened up after the riot before going back there, you thought, noticing that it no longer bore all the bloody layers that the painted red smile had left on to his face. The make up was slightly smudged and about to fade away, but it still continued to hide his appearance flawlessly.

The dempt of his eyes was of a piercing emerald green forest framed by thick, dark brows that stood out on the light nuance of his irises and the dark fluttering of his long lashes. His eyes looked even more sad from so close, in conflict with the joy that the red smile he had put on his face was supposed to reflect. You wondered if his make up was there to protect the man underneath it, and how much pain he had to go through for him make this decision. Sharp cheekbones traveled along his face charmingly, interwoven with a web of soft wrinkles around his eyes that the white paint emphasized, as deep as those that framed his thin, soft lips. It was curious that a man with sad eyes like his own had laughter lines so prominent. Green curls perfectly shaped fell along his face gently, and you wondered what the real color of his hair was as you took in the way it highlighted his chiseled jaw, knitted skillfully with the soft skin underneath his neck like a mosaic. His skin looked soft but worn, and despite his face was hidden by the paint he looked older than he probably was.

Whoever was the man behind the make up he must be very handsome.

For the first time since he had showed up you wondered what the man beneath the paint looked like, what his real name was and, trying not to linger your gaze on his lips so close to yours for too long and holding back yourself from blushing any further, you wondered what his kisses tasted like, too.

But then your glance went on, and you noticed the blood still clotted around the cut on his temples and glued to the closest curls, the bleeding wound from the riot not yet patched up, the blood stains on the side of his neck going down his cleavage underneath the teal shirt and a red droplet staining his yellow vest.

Without thinking, you broke the hold of his hand, his other hand still around your waist in a back and forth now almost motionless, and brought your fingers to the tense skin around the cut of his temple. You felt him stiffening as soon as your fingers suddenly touched his bare skin, initially, his look disoriented as he wondered what you were doing, but then your touch traveled further and as your fingertips were softly brushing against his skin, checking how bad the cut was, how much worried you had to be, you felt him leaning into your touch and his eyelids trembled in relieve. You watched him surrender to your gentleness, not without a hint of exposed vulnerability as your fingers moved down his cheekbones, ghosting over his soft, hollowed cheek, caressing him as much as he clearly needed. You wondered once again if he wasn't used to it as it seemed while your hand hovered over his bruised skin and he blinked dreamily under your attention. You also wondered why he had prioritized his make-up and didn’t bandaged up his wounds when he had the chance, if he still felt pain from the police car accident, almost as if he was used to enduring physical pain for a long time. Suddenly, you felt the urge to take care of him.

You didn’t feel the need to talk while lingering your gaze on him, the blood looking like shimmering black ink under the moonlight. When your eyes finally crossed in silence, he already knew everything he needed to know as unspoken understanding bounded you forever.

"Can I kiss you?" you whispered, your voice more urgent than you've intended.

You took in the changing progression on his face; the longing held back in his eyes, the inherent wonder briefly crossing his dilated pupils, the hitch of his breath as his lips parted in confusion and the lack of response hanged between the two of you. It looked like he didn't know what to do.

The uncertainty of his movements, the fear of rejection, was making you pull away from him and – reluctantly – letting go of the safety of his embrace, but before you could register the shift in his eyes or the sudden flick of his face as he was getting closer, his lips were already on yours.

Moving tentatively through the connection he so long had craved for, his mouth was being clumsy as his buttoned lips pressed eagerly against yours. As your lips began to curl against his own did you feel them unfurl shyly, imitating your movements in an attempt to get it right.

The parting of your lips seemed to reassure him, and once he gained confidence it didn't take long for his hand sliding along it's way to cup your cheek; his thumb grazing across the corner of your mouth protectively made you sigh onto his mouth in bliss.

The tenderness of his gestures was washing over you with his every move and you thought, as the flip of your tongue sought his own inside his mouth, that your lips had never been as safe as they were now, entertwined with his own and wrapped in a crimson color.

You felt his arm around your back tightening and dragging you closer into him with abandon, craving for more. His lips were soft and attentive at the touch, slightly bitter from the paint. You tasted his cigarette on his tongue, feeling it warm and smooth against yours as he explored the cavern of your mouth, awkwardly but passionately. He tasted like smoke, paint, and a distinct flavor you knew belonged to the sweet taste of his breath.

Joker was tender, you had discovered that night, and you understood that his tenderness had a certain exclusiveness and that he carefully chose the people worthy of it. You didn't expect to see it tonight, with you. You wondered how many other treasures he held within him, how many wonderful layers he was made of. And you wanted to enfold each of them like a love letter to read in a shared silence.

You clung to him, your hand threaded through the curls at the nape of his neck, wanting this kiss to last forever and Joker to never let go the hold of you.

But like all good things this kiss had an end, too. When you broke apart you smiled awkwardly at each other, and this time it didn’t matter if he saw the redness of your cheeks as his thumb grazed one more time against your cheek.

You felt bold enough to nestle your head in to his chest, nuzzling his neck as your nose brushed against the pulsant spot there. He smelled good, with a hint of sweat. Your hand was resting on his yellow vest, and his thinness enabled you to feel his cleavage sticking out through the fabric.

You remained silent for a few moments, letting the memory of this kiss, the unexpectedness of this mysterious encounter that would have changed your life, remain suspended between you for a little while longer not to ruin it’s magic. He let you inhabit in to his chest, and you let him cradle you as hard as possible.

"Every apocalypse should end with a good kiss." He said after a few seconds breaking the silence of the night. The way he just described your kiss made you blush again.

You could feel in his words that the night was coming to an end, that your personal apocalypse couldn’t last forever no matter how much you both wanted it, and the thought of him leaving you was making a void take root in your chest.

You didn’t want the mysterious man to go away. You hoped, at least, that his kiss would keep you company forever and follow you everywhere, for eternity; you knew he would.

Feeling the melancholy sadness in his voice you lifted your head up to look him in the eye, unwillingly letting go of the warm safety of his chest.

"Will I see you again?"

He gave you a smile, one of his wolfish smiles that you had learned overnight and that now you could read by heart, and tenderly pecked your forehead leaving a phantom, prolonged red kiss on your skin as a goodbye; he also did not want to go – to leave you.

"To the next apocalypse, my dear."

***

"Joker?" You called him as he was walking away from you to a future you couldn’t be part of – for now, you hoped. 

His red figure stood out in the middle of the road before the outline of the full moon shining in front of him, the shape of his green curls perfectly highlighted by its glitter. The smoke of the riot still lingering in the air danced around him like a reverent, flaming red cloud, and his red stage dress hanged from his body like the mantle of a wolf. He did look like a wolf, you thought, observing his imposing figure walking towards the unknown.

You saw him turn around, his melancholy green eyes looking at you curiously, the magnificence of the full moon behind him as a crown of light among the catastrophic losses of the city. In silence you say goodbye to his red smile in a firewell filled with longing, taking in how the natural landscape was conforming again to his figure like you had seen before. 

"Yeah?"

"Are you the real apocalypse?"

He winked at you, not answering but smiling slyly and revealing a adorable crooked tooth, and before you could process his movements he blew you a kiss from afar, turned toward the horizon in the distance again and made his way in to the pitch darkness, gracefully disappearing in a shadow of mistery just as he had arrived.

You figured out, eventually, as you watched the remnants of his passage and the ghost of your waltz left on the empty street where you'd kissed, invisible enough to wonder if he had been there at all, the reason why you've come back there.

You've hoped to see him again. _The murderer always returns to the crime scene_ , after all.

And, to your surprise, you did.

When the apocalypse would come, you were sure, you wouldn’t be alone.


End file.
